


All Night In: A Collection of Short Terror Fics

by Gigi_Sinclair



Series: All Night In: Short Terror Fics [1]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Football, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Alternate Universe - World War I, Alternate Universe-Somebody Lives/Not Everybody Dies, Canon Compliant, Completed (For Now), Crossover, F/M, M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:42:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 18,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22928908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigi_Sinclair/pseuds/Gigi_Sinclair
Summary: "All night in": Royal Navy expression for having no night watches.A collection of short Terror fics from Tumblr.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier & Thomas Jopson, Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames, Guillaume (Versailles 2015)/Thomas Jopson, Harry D. S. Goodsir/Lady Silence | Silna, Thomas Hartnell/Lt John Irving, Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Series: All Night In: Short Terror Fics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1813006
Comments: 45
Kudos: 122
Collections: The Terror Bingo (2019), the terror decameron





	1. Turmoil on the Inside, rated M

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Terror Bingo square "indifference." TW for sexual harassment and canon violence.

_Turmoil on the inside needn’t show on the out._

As a maxim, it has served Thomas well. Both in his career—a steward has to smile when he wants to scream, must suppress all fits of temper even when they are well-earned—and in his life. As a child, there was no use in crying from hunger, when everybody he knew was just as hungry. There was no sense in wallowing in self-pity, when there was always somebody much worse off.

Thomas has witnessed floggings before, of course. Many of them. Mr. Hickey is only the second man he’s seen whipped as a boy. Most sailors are too intelligent to let it get that far. This means Hickey either possesses no sense of self-preservation, or is so monumentally stupid he is a potential danger to them all. Perhaps the two are not mutually exclusive.

As usual, Thomas schools his expression into one of polite indifference. He looks on disinterestedly, as if he were serving at table, or polishing the silverware, or helping the captain drunkenly piss in the general direction of his chamber pot. When the first strike hits, a bloody squelch on the smooth, pale skin of Hickey’s backside, Thomas’ stomach seizes.

Dirtiness, the captain said. Everyone has heard the rumours about Hickey, of course. Captain Crozier is apparently no exception.

“Disgraceful,” he muttered to Thomas, as if Thomas did not know all there is to know about the captain.

“Indeed,” Thomas agreed, as if he himself had not skylarked with his fair share of men.

Not always by choice. The officers aboard Terror are honourable men, but not all of their Naval brothers can say the same. Thomas has encountered more than a few who find it acceptable to shove their cockstands into his face when he kneels to help them with their boots, who slide their uninvited hands over his body when he steps into the private domain of their cabins. A forthright man, such as Lieutenant Little for example, would scarcely believe the things these depraved officers have said to Thomas, the lewd suggestions they’ve made, the speculation they have forced Thomas to hear about what he might like them to do to him, and what will happen to him if he disagrees. Lieutenant Little, who has only ever spoken to Thomas with the utmost respect, would be shocked to hear what Thomas has endured from other men. Appalled. Angry. Perhaps jealous?

Thomas cannot allow himself to venture any further in that direction. Instead, he focuses on the scene before him. Thomas has to give him his due; Hickey is taking it well. He’s known men given fewer lashes who wept, screamed, pleaded for it to stop. Thomas wonders, sometimes, how he himself would react. He has spent a lifetime developing his unflappable facade, but pain like this, not to mention the humiliation, might be enough to crack it.

He has no intention of finding out. Hickey’s punishment, as unpleasant as it is to witness, will be a good reminder over the months to come, as the voyage drags on. As Thomas, spending day after day in Lieutenant Little’s presence, might be tempted to do something supremely inadvisable.

Thomas dreams, at times, of the supremely inadvisable. Of putting himself on the lieutenant’s knee in some convenient moment alone, of kissing his handsome face, of introducing him to delights Thomas is certain Lieutenant Little has never experienced, but which Thomas could render so incredibly appealing, the man would at once wonder how he ever lived without. Only if the lieutenant was agreeable, of course. In Thomas’ dreams, he is always very agreeable. 

Reality and dreams are two different beasts. That’s something else Thomas learned very early in life. Dreams are sweet kisses, a secret romance, making love with a handsome, worthy man who wants nothing more than to protect Thomas and honour him and love him in return. Reality is this: an overcrowded room stinking of sweat, with blood on the floor and disgrace in the air.

When they are at last dismissed, Thomas sees Lieutenant Little cast a glance in his direction, with the same hesitant subtlety he often shows in the wardroom. Thomas doesn’t look back. Instead, he hardens his heart, shores up his mask, and turns away. It’s for his own good, as well as the lieutenant’s.

Thomas can live with disappointment. He’s been doing that his whole life. Turmoil on the inside needn’t show on the out. And neither should want, or desire. Or love.

A polite smile, an obedient, rule-abiding demeanour and indifference to all but his master the captain. That’s what’s brought Thomas as far as he’s come, and that’s what will keep him sane, safe and healthy for however long the expedition lasts.

Hickey might take the same lesson from this experience. Thomas doubts he will. Not that it’s any affair of his.


	2. Convivial Society, rated M

Thomas stands at the basin, rubbing a particularly stubborn glob of gravy from between the tines of a fork, when the door slides open behind him.

“Put the rest over there, Mr. Genge.” With an elbow, he indicates the space beside him. “I’ll get to it presently.”

A footfall, heavier than Mr. Genge’s light steward’s step, moves closer. Before Thomas can turn to look, strong arms come up on either side, trapping him against the basin’s edge. A sturdy body pushes against him, so closely he can feel the press of buttons against his back. The sensation sends a shiver through Thomas as someone first breathes hotly, then whispers in his ear.

“You were teasing me again.” Thomas’ mouth is too dry to respond. The other man doesn’t pause for a reply. “Out there. Leaning over beside me at the table. Putting your luscious backside in my face.” The man behind him moves closer still. Thomas feels something else against his body. Something much larger than buttons. “You must take amusement from it. Knowing you’re driving me wild.”

Thomas finds his voice. “Sir, I, I, I apologize if…”

“Knowing I am incapable of doing anything but seethe with jealousy as I watch you wait on other men. Knowing that if it were my decision, you would serve me and me alone.” The man’s cock twitches against Thomas. In response, Thomas feels his own hardening in his small clothes. 

“Lieutenant.” It’s more of a gasp than a word. Thomas gasps again when Lieutenant Little turns him, so that they are face-to-face.

“You are mine.”

“Yes, sir.” On that subject, there is no question.

“Prove it,” Little demands, and kisses him.

It’s hot and harsh. Little’s teeth drag over Thomas’ lips, his tongue invades Thomas’ mouth with a forthrightness that brooks no resistance. Not that Thomas is of a mind to offer any. His hands go to Little’s shoulders, then his arms move around the man’s neck. Little hitches forward, and even through their clothing, Thomas can feel the hard, pulsing length of him.

“Lieutenant.” Thomas pushes against him, desperate for more contact. The lieutenant sticks one wide thigh between Thomas’ own, giving him something to rub against. Thomas does so shamelessly. He throws his head back, and Little moves to plunder his neck, biting and sucking as Thomas takes his pleasure. The dishes rattle behind him with every jerky movement. When Thomas spends, it is with Little’s teeth on his collarbone and Little’s whispered name on his lips.

Instinct demands Thomas fall to his knees and bring the lieutenant satisfaction with his mouth. Alas, sanity must overrule it. Their time together is too restricted, the risk too great. Instead, Thomas turns around, leaning against the basin. Dishwater soaks unheeded into the front of his already-damp trousers as Little ruts against his clothed body in a simulation of the act that would get them hanged, and which Thomas wants more than anything to undertake.

A sudden stop and a stifled groan tells Thomas when the lieutenant has finished. Because he cannot resist, Thomas turns back and kisses him a final time, quick and quiet. “I’ll see you tonight,” he promises. “In your cabin.” Little’s eyes are brimming with passion, an unusual expression for the usually reticent man and one only Thomas is ever permitted to see.

“Best get a move on, Mr. Jopson,” the lieutenant replies, voice deep enough to send a frisson up Thomas’ spine. “There’s plenty more where that came from.”

“What?” Thomas blinks.

“I said,” Mr. Genge places another armful of dishes at Thomas’ side, “we’d best get a move on.” He looks at the pile of silverware, untouched since he was last in the room. “You all right?”

“Yes.” His tone is more strangled than he expected. Thomas clears his throat. “Yes. I’m fine. Sorry, I was just lost in thought.”

“Right.” Genge seems unsure, but he’s not the type to press for details, thank God. “I’ll bring in the last of it, then I’ll come lend you a hand.” He goes out again, leaving the door open. Through it, Thomas sees the few remaining officers exiting the wardroom, off to carry on with the rest of their day. As Thomas looks, Lieutenant Little raises his gaze, bringing their eyes into contact. Thomas feels himself blushing, as if the lieutenant could somehow divine just by looking at him the contents of his illicit midday fantasies. Before Thomas tears his eyes away, he sees a ghost of a smile cross the lieutenant’s lips. Thomas is not too shocked to smile back.

As Mr. Genge bustles back in, Thomas returns to work, savouring the little flutter in his stomach that has a habit of appearing when the lieutenant pays him any mind. Pathetic, perhaps, but it is what feeds his fantasies, and it’s what keeps him thinking maybe, one day, they might be a little more than mere imagination.


	3. He Who Goes To Bed Hungry, rated T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "Pancake Day", from vivicaine.

_He who goes to bed hungry dreams of pancakes.- Maltese proverb_

Jopson’s hair is turning white.

This is a surprising development, particularly as it seems to have occurred in the space of a single afternoon. Stranger still, the colour is confined to only one lock, the one lying against his right cheek. It is only when Jopson sets down his serving dish of pancakes on the table, then reaches up to tuck that errant lock behind his ear, that Edward realizes the true nature of his new coiffure.

“Did you, by chance, make these yourself, Mr. Jopson?” Edward asks. The pancakes are piping hot and smell divine.

“Mr. Diggle requested my assistance, sir. He had a great deal of pancakes to make.”

“Indeed.” It is Shrove Tuesday for the men as well as the officers, and as everyone knows, pancakes are only good when eaten fresh.

Up close, Edward can see specks of flour adorning Jopson’s cuffs, in addition to streaking his hair. It’s so sweetly charming on a man who is usually so impeccably put together, Edward’s stomach gives an unexpected lurch. He busies himself with his pancakes at once. They taste as heavenly as they smell.

“I believe on Erebus,” Lieutenant Irving declares, once they have all been served, “Sir John is having all of the officers give up alcohol for Lent. Perhaps we ought to go around the table and share what each of us is doing to mark this particular time of year.” 

Irving is young, and irritating at times, but Edward can’t fault the man’s courage. He doesn’t blink when the captain fixes him with a stare that would have set many a lesser man to weeping.

“Aye, lad,” Mr. Blanky says, before the captain can reply. “It’s a grand idea. Personally, I plan to give up swearing.”

“Really?” Irving looks as surprised as Edward feels. “That is very commendable, sir.”

“Indeed it bloody is. I’ll get a fucking start on it tomorrow goddamn morning.”

There’s a round of laughter. Irving’s expression doesn’t change, even as the tips of his ears redden. Edward glances up, to see Jopson smiling from his position against the wall.

He has a very handsome smile. Edward has remarked it before, shamefully. It is not his business to notice anything about his subordinates, beyond whether they are fulfilling their duties, but there has always been something eminently noticeable about Mr. Jopson.

Jopson’s gaze comes up, catching Edward’s. Quickly, Edward focuses on the plate in front of him.

That is what Edward should be renouncing for Lent. Not just for Lent, but for good. He needs to stop staring at Jopson. Stop thinking about Jopson. Stop lying in his berth at night, picturing Jopson in all manner of extremely revealing, immoral and occasionally illegal positions. If he were a stronger man, a more pious man, Edward would endeavour to do just that.

Instead, as Hodgson embarks on some dull anecdote about a childhood attempt to give up school for Lent, Edward allows himself another quick glance in Jopson’s direction. The flour-stained strand of hair has worked its way loose again. Edward’s hands itch to smooth it back for him.

“It is most important that we repent during this time,” Irving insists, interrupting Hodgson’s reminiscing. Edward has to give him credit for it. Irving is not easily cowed, certainly not when it comes to religion. He would be more at home, Edward often thinks, with Sir John as his captain. “It is through self-denial that we prove our devotion to God.”

 _God shall be disappointed in me, then_ , Edward thinks, although that’s hardly a surprise. He has no intention of denying himself this little pleasure. This harmless pleasure, really. There are few enough of those around here.

The captain says something. Edward doesn’t hear what, but it sends another ripple of laughter around the table. Edward joins in, belatedly and too loudly, and spears the last morsel of sugar-dusted pancake on the tines of his fork.

“And moreover, I will not ask my men to give up anything,” Crozier continues, “when circumstances have already taken so much from us, and will continue to do so.” He looks around the table, his gaze landing on each man in turn. “We must live every day to its fullest. Eat up, gentlemen. We have no guarantee of such luxurious provisions this time next year.”

The thought of still being here next year is enough to make Edward ill, despite the lovely meal. He peeks over at Jopson again. This time, Edward finds Jopson looking back at him. Jopson’s rosy cheeks darken a little, but he doesn’t turn away. Edward, transfixed, watches as slowly, deliberately, Jopson raises his hand and shifts his hair back into place, his big, sea-storm eyes not moving from Edward’s. _Then again_ , Edward thinks, heart pounding fit to burst, _anything can happen in a year._ Anything at all.


	4. The World Stood Still, But Then He Just Smiled, rated T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "Edward in his spectacles, before seeing Le Vesconte about Carnivale", from mimibelle76. Title from ABBA's "When I Kissed The Teacher."

“You look very scholarly like that. It’s quite handsome.”

Edward glances over his shoulder, peering at Thomas through his spectacles. “You would be the first to think it.”

“Good.” The ship is quiet this afternoon, even by its current standards. The captain, God bless him, is asleep at last, snoring fitfully against his pillow. “I want to be the first, and the only.” Thomas steps forward. He himself is exhausted. He can feel it in his aching bones, his pounding head, but he is not going to squander a few moments alone with Edward. Drawing nearer, he stands behind the acting captain, resting his hands on Edward’s shoulders.

“I didn’t go to school much,” Thomas says. It is a longstanding regret of his, but there wasn’t time. He learned to read and write, barely, before he was forced to leave, first to take care of his mother, and then to go to sea. “But I always fancied kissing a schoolmaster.”

Edward turns in his chair, until his back is to the desk and the logbook atop it. Thomas knows what he’s been writing. Lies, or as close to them as the unfailingly honest Edward can stand to get. _Captain Crozier remains mysteriously ill. Doctor assures us it is not scurvy._

“Le Vesconte will be here soon,” Edward warns.

“That’s fine.” As much as he would love to, Thomas isn’t planning on submitting to a buggering right here in the wardroom. He does bend down until his lips are within reach of Edward’s. He raises his hands to stroke Edward’s increasingly bushy whiskers, the way he likes, and kisses him.

The rims of Edward’s spectacles press into Thomas’ cheeks. It’s uncomfortable, and he is most certainly smearing Edward’s lenses, but Thomas doesn’t pull back. Instead, he savours the sensation.

Thomas is a man of imagination. He has always seen possibilities where other men may not; it is how he was able to reach this point in his affair with Edward. He hasn’t indulged in pure fantasy much lately, it’s too depressing, but now, he allows himself to concoct an elaborate scenario in his mind.

He is a student at Oxford. Thomas has only a vague idea of what that would entail, but he imagines the place having the same sort of camaraderie as a ship, where instead of scrubbing and sewing and serving, Thomas’ days would be filled with learning. He would study all those fascinating topics he has heard of, but knows nothing about: literature, history, science, mathematics.

In reality, Thomas has no great aptitude for any academic subject. The captain, as patient and kind as he is, occasionally tries to teach Thomas about navigation or magnetic readings, as if he thinks Thomas might be an officer one day, but Thomas is hopeless at it. In his fantasy, he suffers no such limitations. There, he is so incredibly brilliant, he attracts the attention of a handsome don, with dark whiskers and dark eyes and a smile so rare and so beautiful, it feels like a glimpse of Heaven whenever he bestows it upon Thomas.

Thomas doesn’t know what Edward’s specialty would be. He is so extraordinarily clever at everything. He loves music, so perhaps that. Or maybe astronomy. Now that the ship is mostly empty, Thomas goes on deck some nights when Edward is on duty and the captain is asleep, to gaze at the stars with him. Edward knows all of the constellations, all of the stories. On occasion, Edward daringly takes Thomas’ gloved hand as he tells them, pressing it to his breast and, once, to his lips. Despite the frigid cold, Thomas thinks he’s never been happier than during those stolen moments.

Astronomy it is, then. They could pore over texts, Edward in his spectacles and Thomas perched on his knee until he couldn’t take it anymore and was forced—absolutely forced—to kiss Edward over and over again.

“Tommy.” Edward pulls away from the actual kiss. As expected, Thomas can see his lenses are dirty. Thomas plucks them off Edward’s nose and rubs them on the hem of his waistcoat.

When he returns the spectacles to Edward’s face, Edward reaches out to touch Thomas’ cheek, which he knows must be flaming red. “I do love you, darling.” The uncommon declaration sends a renewed wave of warmth through Thomas. “But Le Vesconte…”

“I know.” Thomas steps back. “I know. And I have work, as well.”

Edward frowns. “You should take your rest whilst you can.”

“I’ve no time for that.” Sadly. The captain’s washing awaits, and the man himself will likely be awake sooner rather than later, in need of a cold compress and a friendly face. “You must be sure to tell me what news Lieutenant Le Vesconte brings from Captain Fitzjames.”

“Of course.”

Just as Thomas is more privy to Captain Crozier’s inner thoughts and feelings than a typical steward would be, Edward leans on him, as well, for advice and support. Thomas is happy to offer it.

Edward clears his throat, as if he is about to say more. When nothing comes, Thomas gives him a smile and turns to go. He’s nearly at the door when he hears Edward say, “Perhaps later, after Le Vesconte has gone, you and I might meet again, if you are free. We could read together. Or, or…” He flushes most fetchingly, his cheeks rosy pink beneath the rims of his spectacles. “Do some sums.”

Thomas cannot contain his grin. “I would like nothing more,” he confesses. Then adds, far more saucily than he would have ever addressed a real schoolmaster, “Mr. Little, sir,” and winks. 

“Excellent. I, ah, I look forward to it, Jopson.” Edward smiles in return, a shy little thing that fills Thomas with so much love, he’s not sure how one person can be expected to contain it all. “And don’t be late,” Edward adds, looking at Thomas over the rims of his spectacles.

The unexpectedly stern tone does something surprising to Thomas’ insides. Before he does anything stupid, he hurries away, leaving Edward to his duty and hoping, with greater fervour than ever, that Le Vesconte visits briefly and returns to Erebus with incredible haste.


	5. Smooth Sea Never Made Skilled Sailor, rated G

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "a dark and stormy night", from onstraysod.

Another wave crests against the bow of the ship. _Terror_ pitches up roughly, then rolls down with just as much force. In the nick of time, Thomas yanks his pen away from the paper, saving his letter to Bobby from an unsightly scribble.

Long ago, in his early days on the _Racer_ , such a storm would have had Thomas heaving his guts out into a bucket. He can hear the dulcet sounds of retching from other, less experienced men, but Thomas’ concern is only for the provisions. He listens to the jars and bottles clinking in the specially designed shelves of his pantry, and prays nothing will slip loose.

It is not _his_ pantry, of course. It is the captain’s. In reality, as on many ships, the little room is the exclusive domain of the captain’s steward. Even Crozier himself stays away. Thomas is surprised, therefore, when, in this weather, at this time of night, there comes a knock on the door.

“Come in,” Thomas calls. The lamp by his side gutters. The door swings open to reveal the ship’s second-in-command, Lieutenant Little, standing soaked to the skin with a rueful expression on his face.

“Sorry to disturb, Mr…Jopson, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right, sir.” Thomas stands, steadying himself against the bulkhead.

“I saw your light on,” the lieutenant continues, as if he has to explain anything to a man of Thomas’ rank. “Thought you might be so kind as to be of assistance.” He holds up an arm. His sodden rain cloak is marred by a long tear. “Got knocked over by that last wave. Snagged it on a nail." 

“Of course, sir. Allow me.”

Thomas helps him unfasten the cloak, and Little removes his hat. The lieutenant’s thick, dark hair is dripping.

“Here, sir.” Thomas takes a neatly folded tea towel from the shelf in the corner, and passes it to him. It’s not much, but he fancies Little gives him a grateful look as he swipes the cloth over his wet face. He then scrubs at his hair, leaving it in such disarray, Thomas smiles.

“Hell of a storm tonight,” Little comments. He sets the wet cloth down on the built-in work table beside Thomas.

“Yes, indeed.”

Thomas moves the cloak nearer to the light. The rip is along a seam, thankfully. It won’t take much to mend it. He opens the nearest drawer and pulls out his sewing kit.

“Oh, I apologize,” Little points at the half-finished letter beside the lamp. “You were busy.”

“Nothing that can’t wait, sir.”

“Writing to your sweetheart?”

It is casual conversation of the type some officers occasionally feel compelled to make with Thomas, to prove they see him as a person and not simply a tool to serve their needs. Those officers are rare, but Thomas appreciates them greatly. While they have known one another only a short time, he’s not surprised, somehow, that Lieutenant Little is a man of this sort.

“My brother.” He threads his needle, cutting off the excess with his teeth. Little looks at him rather intently. “I plan to post it in Greenland,” Thomas goes on, feeling suddenly awkward. “It will be our last chance to send anything for some time.”

“Quite.”

Thomas pushes the large needle through the thick fabric of the cloak, then pulls it out again, over and over. The silence stretches. Since Little has already proven himself an officer who does not mind casual conversation with the likes of Thomas, Thomas says, “Do you have any, sir?”

Little blinks. “Sweethearts?”

“Brothers.”

“Ah. Yes.” Edward clears his throat, clearly embarrassed. It’s rather sweet. _Which is not a thought that will ever get you anywhere_ , Thomas reminds himself. _Particularly not on a five year sea voyage._ “I have far too many, I’m afraid. And sisters, as well.”

“I’m sure they will be missing you.”

“I wouldn’t be so certain.”

The ship jerks, and Thomas’ needle plunges into the flesh of his thumb. “Damn!” He should have used a thimble, particularly in this weather. Thomas brings his hand to his mouth, sucking off the bead of blood before it can fall onto Lieutenant Little’s cloak.

“Are you all right?”

Thomas glances up to see Little’s inky eyes brimming with concern. “I’m fine, sir.” He pulls his handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his thumb. The injury is minor. It has already stopped bleeding. “I’m nearly finished here.”

“You _are_ fast.”

“I have been doing this job for quite some time.”

“Of course. You were on the Antarctic expedition with Ross, weren’t you?”

“That’s right.”

“That must have been fascinating. I would love to hear your stories, if ever you have the time.”

“I would like that, sir.” Like it rather too much, perhaps, but Thomas is no naive ship’s boy. He trusts himself not to lose his head over a handsome officer, even one as charming as Lieutenant Little is proving to be. “Here you are.” Thomas snips off the thread and stands. He takes a step closer to the lieutenant, holding out the repaired cloak; at the same moment, strong waves buffet the ship. Thomas loses his normally sure footing, and finds himself propelled into the other man.

Little’s arms come up at once, steadying Thomas but not pushing him away. For what seems like a short eternity, they are pressed chest-to-chest, so close Thomas can see the raindrops still shining in the lieutenant’s thick whiskers, and feel the warmth of his body beneath his damp clothing. He smells like wet wool, but also like the storm itself. Like something powerful and unpredictable.

An image pops into Thomas’ mind, fleeting and entirely unbidden, of Lieutenant Little closing the scant distance between them and pressing his lips to Thomas’. His kisses would be soft, Thomas thinks, his mouth gentle but with a scratch of stubble around it. Just the way Thomas likes best.

“I beg your pardon, sir.” Thomas steps back abruptly, pressing the cloak into the lieutenant’s hands.

“It’s quite all right, Mr. Jopson.” The lieutenant’s voice has taken on a strange, strained quality. Thomas hopes he is not falling ill, out there in the rain and the cold. “Thank you very much for your assistance.”

“It was nothing.”

Little seems poised to say more. Instead, he nods. “I’ll bid you good night, then. Let you get on with your letter.”

“Good night. Please be careful up on deck.” The words slip out, although they are hardly the sort of thing one says to a senior officer. Thomas cringes inwardly. If Little is offended by the insubordination, he doesn’t show it.

“Thank you,” he repeats. Then he is gone, shutting the pantry door behind him.

Thomas takes up his pen again, reading over his last paragraph, a description of the fearsome storm. _Despite the poor weather_ , he continues, _I find myself in very congenial company, and eager to continue our adventures north._

He signs off with his love, folds the letter into its envelope, and picks up the towel made wet by Lieutenant Little’s face and hair. The urge, inexplicable and strong, hits him to linger over it, even to press it to his own face. Instead, he tosses it into the laundry basket beneath the table. _That will be quite enough of that nonsense_ , Thomas tells himself sternly. The ship shudders once more, and Thomas heads for his berth, firmly pushing all thoughts of Lieutenant Little from his mind.


	6. Forever and Not Nearly Long Enough, rated M

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "Edward is ticklish", from buttymcbuttface. Follow up to [Breakaway](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22310407/chapters/53289082). Light bondage.

Tom doesn’t realize just how drunk he is until he attempts to put his key into the front door, and the lock eludes him. 

“Need a hand?” Ed presses up behind him, his arms winding around Tom’s waist and his tongue tracing the edge of Tom’s ear. He moves down to kiss along Tom’s jaw, then to suck at his neck. None of this does anything for Tom’s coordination. He tries to bat Ed away, but Ed doesn’t move.

There are only two other flats on this floor, and the corridor is currently empty. Still, Tom has no desire to be caught making out against the door like a couple of horny teenagers. 

Ed’s public coming out has gone better than Tom honestly thought it would. A couple of his bus shelter advertisements have been defaced with unimaginative slurs. At first, there was a little awkwardness in the club changing room, which Tom has stopped visiting, but Ed hasn’t lost any endorsements. In fact, he’s gained a couple. More important are the emails and Instagram messages Ed has received from dozens of LGBTQA kids who, up until now, had believed their sexuality automatically precluded them from any future as a professional athlete. Ed doesn’t say much about it, but Tom knows how much those notes mean to him. 

The key finally hits home, and Tom and Ed stumble into the darkened flat. The moment they cross the threshold, Ed kicks the door shut and is upon Tom once more, pushing him against the wall and sliding his tongue eagerly into Tom’s mouth. 

“If I’d known weddings did this to you,” Tom gasps, when Ed grinds against him, “I’d have taken to you to one a long time ago." 

Harry and Silna’s wedding was beautiful, like most weddings are. The bride was radiant; Goodsir spent the entire time looking like he couldn’t believe it was actually happening. Tom had a great time, dancing with Ed and talking to the other guests, including Francis Crozier’s new, close friend, Britannia Fitzjames. On the heels of Ed’s coming out, the popular Instagram model made an announcement of her own, revealing her identity as a transwoman. Tom admires her, but not as much as Francis does. When Tom and Ed left, the two of them were sitting in a cosy corner, holding hands with hearts in their eyes. 

"Not weddings,” Ed murmurs. “Just you.” He backs off a little and removes his jacket, tossing it carelessly onto the floor behind him. 

Tom frowns. “Don’t leave it there.”

“What?”

“Your jacket. It’ll get creased as hell if you leave it on the floor.”

An indecipherable look appears in Ed’s eyes, even as the corner of his mouth lifts in a smile. "What will you to do me?”

“Excuse me?”

"What will you do? If I leave the jacket there.”

Tom isn’t sure what this is about, beyond the fact Ed is clearly just as drunk, if not drunker, than Tom. It’s rare for him to be playful. Tom finds himself wanting to take advantage of it. 

“Oh,” Tom says, “I know just what you deserve." 

He reaches out and yanks Ed’s shirttails from his trousers. Before Ed can react, Tom slips his hands beneath and slides his hands up Ed’s bare sides. 

"Fuck, Tom!” Instinctively, Ed tries to escape. Tom doesn’t let him. “You bastard,” Ed laughs. 

The discovery that Ed is extremely ticklish was made quite by accident. In bed one day, Tom noticed him squirming and giggling–actually giggling–when Tom brushed his sides. Further experimentation revealed Ed had a similar reaction to Tom touching under his arms, the back of his knees, the soles of his feet. Being a kind and benevolent man, Tom has never abused this knowledge. Until now. 

Still laughing, Ed twists away from Tom’s tickling fingers and flees. Tom puts the jacket on a hanger, because, all jokes aside, it is Louis Vuitton, and follows.

He reaches the bedroom just a dozen paces behind Ed, but it’s long enough for Ed to position himself to attack. He jumps out as Tom steps through the doorway, tackling him onto the bed. The mattress dips beneath their sudden, combined weight. “You think you’re clever?” Ed asks, grinning. 

“Yes,” Tom replies, honestly. Ed sits up, but doesn’t remove himself from Tom’s body. Pinned beneath him, Tom watches as Ed loosens, then removes, his own striped club tie. 

“You know how I feel about being tickled." 

Tom remains defiant. "I don’t regret it." 

"Not yet, maybe.” Ed loops the tie around Tom’s right wrist and ties it to the headboard with the loosest knot imaginable. If he so wished, Tom could easily break free. He finds himself not wanting to. More than that, he finds himself growing warmer, his breath coming faster as Ed pulls off Tom’s tie and uses it to restrain his left hand. “There.” Ed surveys his handiwork, a flush on his cheeks Tom is certain must be matched on his own. “Seems like I’m the one in charge now." 

Tom swallows around the lump which has suddenly appeared in his throat. "True.”

“Seems like I can do anything I want.”

“Seems like it." 

Ed falters. For a moment, Tom thinks Ed will revert to his usual self, but he doesn’t. Instead, without saying a word, he steps off the bed. Remaining in Tom’s line of sight, he removes the rest of his clothes: shirt, shoes, trousers, underpants and socks, leaving them piled on the floor in a way Tom is sure is deliberate. Once he is naked, he straddles Tom once more, giving him an excellent view of most of Ed’s many tattoos, including Tom’s favourite: Tom’s own name, inscribed right over Ed’s heart. 

"What if I want to tease you? Get you all revved up and leave you hanging?” Ed asks, with a little wriggle.

“You wouldn’t do that.” Would he?

Another gleam comes to Ed’s eye. “What if I want to ride you?”

They’ve never done that before. Intellectually, Tom knows, for Ed’s sake, this isn’t something they should be undertaking for the first time while they’re drunk and, at least in Tom’s case, growing increasingly desperate, but Tom’s intellectualism disappears the moment Ed unzips his trousers and pulls out Tom’s already-eager cock. 

“Don’t come on my clothes,” Tom says. 

“Yes, sir,” Ed replies. Tom’s cock jerks again. “Any other requests?" 

"Enjoy yourself." 

Ed laughs and slides down the bed to take Tom into his mouth.

It’s amazing, of course. Ed undertakes everything he does with single-minded focus and determination. After several months of living with him, and several more of working with him, Tom has learned he personally does not always appreciate this unswerving dedication of Ed’s, particularly when it would be useful for him to multitask a little. In bed, however, Tom has no complaints. Rather the reverse. The look of pure concentration on Ed’s face as he lowers himself, slick and tight, onto Tom’s cock is a thing of such beauty, Tom wishes he had the artistic skills to capture it. Then again, Tom is happy with this view being for him and him alone. 

Afterwards, Ed cares for Tom gently, although that feels more like something Tom should be doing for Ed. He unties his wrists and undresses him the rest of the way. True to his word, there is not a spot of semen on Tom’s bespoke Jermyn Street suit. 

Ed even goes so far as to hang up Tom’s clothes, as well as his own, before returning to bed. Tom knows he should ask after him, make sure he’s not too sore or, worse yet, embarrassed by what they just did, but he’s so tired, he can’t bring himself to form words. In the morning, he promises himself. 

Ed rests his head on Tom’s shoulder. "Three months.”

“Hmm?”

“It’ll be our turn to walk down the aisle in three months.”

“Ten weeks.” Tom has an intricate system of colour-coded folders dedicated to every aspect of planning their wedding. Tom opens his eyes. "Are you looking forward to it?”

“Are you joking? I can’t wait. I’d marry you tomorrow, if I didn’t know how much work you’ve put in for this big do.” The complete certainty in Ed’s voice brings a smile to Tom’s face. Not that he ever doubted it, but Ed isn’t always the most expressive of people. It’s nice to hear it out loud, once in a while. “Even,” Ed adds, “if you are a bastard.”

“Your bastard,” Tom corrects. “Always.”

Ed reaches up for a kiss, then cuddles in close. Tom falls asleep happy. with his face in Ed’s hair and his arm, steady, secure and not at all prone to tickling, about Ed’s middle.


	7. Sins Not Tragedies, rated G

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AKA "Haven't you people ever heard of closing the goddamn door?"
> 
> CW for period-typical attitudes. Title from Panic! At the Disco. For The Terror Bingo space "there's nothing to be afraid of."

John Irving is not a fool.

He is no innocent, either, although he knows many people think it of him. He is familiar with the weaknesses of men. He even has sympathy for them. That is, after all, why he sought to rehabilitate Mr. Hickey and Mr. Gibson himself, rather than turn the matter over to the captain, as protocol demanded. His mercy was justified, it seems. Mr. Gibson has not complained of any further assaults, and it does not appear Hickey has turned his deviant attention elsewhere. Perhaps the flogging, unpleasant as it was, proved just the lesson he needed.

This, however, is something else. Rather, it is the same thing, but John cannot possibly react to it in the same way.

Hickey and Gibson are men of the lower ranks, of the lower classes. As is Jopson, for all his extreme familiarity with the captain. In everything, they require a guiding hand, a patient teacher. They cannot be expected to have the capacity to withstand temptation—and John can acknowledge its lure is all the stronger after so long here in the ice—without the help of their moral superiors. 

Lieutenant Little should require no such assistance. The man is a first lieutenant. Soon to be a commander, if the Admiralty hasn’t already decreed it. There is no excuse for what John glimpses as he passes the storeroom late one night.

The ship is all but abandoned now. For some reason, all three lieutenants—Little, Hodgson, and John himself—remain on _Terror_ , even though only Lieutenant Le Vesconte and Captain Fitzjames are left on _Erebus_ , but the crew is scant. They have suspended the formal system of watches. Still, the creature is out there, and they must remain on their guard. John comes down from the deck after spending long hours of staring at the ice, alert for the creature from Hell. He should go directly to bed, but he needs a cup of tea to warm him up. He heads for the galley, passing on his way the captain’s pantry.

This little room, Mr. Jopson’s territory, is usually sealed off from everybody else. Today, the door is ajar. Curious, John approaches, with a mind to shut it if there is nobody within. Instead, he sees what he immediately wishes he had not.

The room is dimly lit by a single candle. It is enough for John to make out the figures of Jopson and Little standing face-to-face, much more closely together than even the small pantry necessitates. Edward’s arms are around Jopson’s waist, whilst Jopson’s hands rest on Edward’s shoulders.

There is nothing inherently scandalous about their placement but, again, John is not a fool. Edward’s position is not to prevent Jopson from slipping down the perpetually slanted floor. Jopson, while an attentive steward, is not brushing lint from the lieutenant’s lapels. This position speaks loudly and clearly of illicit intimacy, and John at once feels unwell.

Abandoning the idea of tea, John retreats to his bunk.

He has to inform the captain, but, at the moment, Edward himself is captain, and, until now, doing a fine job of it. In all the years they’ve known each other, Edward has never struck John as weak, or as at all lacking in character or morals. If anything, he is one of the most upstanding officers John has ever met. He is the last person John would have expected to fall prey to such deviant desires. _If someone like Edward can fall_ , John thinks, twisting his hands anxiously, _then what hope does anyone else have of resisting?_

John sleeps very poorly. In the morning, while he is hungry, he cannot bring himself to go to the wardroom for breakfast. He does not know how he is meant to face Edward or Jopson, how he is meant to make polite conversation with them knowing what he knows. Instead, he buries himself in that which he has always found most comforting: his Bible. It helps little. His mind, quite unbidden, keeps returning to what he saw, and, more salacious yet, that which he did not see, but which was implied.

When a knock comes on the door, John starts. Of course, it is only Gibson, here to help him dress for the day.

“Mr. Gibson,” John begins, as Gibson fastens his stock about his neck.

“Yes, sir?” Gibson looks at him with his wide, pale eyes, and John realizes he does not know what he wishes to say.

He lands on, “Thank you.” It sounds awkward. The way John feels.

“Of course, sir.” Gibson nods and excuses himself, leaving John once again alone with his ceaseless thoughts.

But not for long. Scarcely minutes after Gibson’s departure, there is another knock on the door. Mr. Hartnell looks in, the sight of him reminding John, for the first time, that they are meant to meet today.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Hartnell,” John says. “I had quite forgotten our appointment.”

“No trouble, sir.” Hartnell looks poised to leave. John can’t blame him.

The idea of John helping Hartnell come to terms with the loss of his brother through Bible readings would have been a good one, if Hartnell himself seemed at all inclined to want it. He never has. He comes to John’s cabin diligently three times a week, sits and listens to John expound upon the Biblical themes of love and forgiveness, but the fidgeting and the chewing of his thumbnails indicate quite clearly that he longs to be doing something else, probably far away from John. John, unsure how to react to this, has bullied on, convinced he is doing the right thing by offering a subordinate the natural, God-given wisdom of a man of a much higher social position and rank. In the cold light of all he knows now, John has to wonder if he was ever right to interfere at all.

“We ought to stop this,” John says, his heart as heavy as his sigh.

“For today?”

“For good. I am no physician, Mr. Hartnell, nor am I a Biblical scholar. I have offered you all I can. It is time for you to seek solace elsewhere.” Harsh perhaps, but true, for Hartnell’s own sake if nothing else. Hartnell’s face falls. He is a very handsome man, John notes, not for the first time, and therein lies the true crux of this matter.

John always thought he was immune to Thomas Hartnell’s charms, as copious as they are, because of who John is. His faith, his background, his rank, all are sturdy armour against sin. But Edward, while not as overtly religious, is just as Christian, and even more highly placed than John. He, quite obviously, has succumbed the lure of a much lower-ranking man.

Rather than flee as he should, Hartnell steps inside, and casts his gaze across John’s walls. “If you don’t mind me saying, sir, I’ve always liked these paintings of yours. That cat’s the spitting image of my sister’s moggy.” Hartnell nods at one of the paintings. A black and grey cat, it was an experiment in monochrome painting, and not one of John’s great successes. “Old Tom, we call him. It’s quite a thing, to have to share one’s name with the cat. I suppose I already share it with half the men I meet. The occasional animal oughtn’t make much difference.”

John blinks. “In Australia, we had a bull called Red John.” A huge, ornery beast. John hasn’t thought of it in years. It was an ill-tempered old thing that fathered more calves than any other in the area. An irony which, at the moment, does not escape this John.

“Well, now, sir. That is a namesake to aspire to.”

Despite himself, John laughs. It makes Hartnell smile in turn, which sends something soaring in John’s breast. “You have helped me, lieutenant,” Hartnell goes on. “Even if it doesn’t seem like it. I ain’t…I’m not half as addled as I was before I started seeing you.”

“That is kind of you to say.”

“It’s the truth.” He bites his lip. John immediately looks away. “You are a good man, sir. One of the best.”

John cannot be silent. “You say that because you do not know me.” Does not know the dreams he has been keeping at bay by clinging to his rank, his position. Has not seen the lake of depravity into which John knew—absolutely _knew_ —he would never dip a toe, until he found Edward Little, of all people, splashing about right in the middle of it.

“I think I do.” Hartnell’s expression is so earnest, John wonders, for a moment, if he really does see right through him, and, more amazing still, is not utterly disgusted. “I can come back this evening, if you’re too busy now. I would very much hate to miss our discussion.”

“Yes,” John hears himself saying. “This evening.” Perhaps everything will be as it was by then. Perhaps the genie will be back in its bottle, and all will be forgotten. Strangely, that thought doesn’t make John as happy as he would have expected it to.

Hartnell’s smile grows brighter, making him radiant even in the weak Arctic light. “Until tonight, then, sir.” He turns to go.

“Take the painting,” John blurts out. Hartnell stops. His cheeks burning, John takes the monochromatic cat from the wall. “If you like it, that is. Could be something to remind you of home.”

“Thank you, sir.” Hartnell gazes at painting as if John has presented him with an artistic masterpiece. It’s prideful, but John’s heart swells to see it. “For everything.”

When he’s gone, John brings out his watercolours. He’s not sure what he is going to paint, but despite it all, he has an urge to make something joyful. _Perhaps_ , John thinks, _Edward is not an infallible paragon of virtue. Perhaps none of us are. And perhaps_ , he adds, even though thinking it may well be Arctic madness or the beginnings of scurvy or brain fever or some other deadly malady, _it is possible to live on regardless._


	8. Just a Little More Than I Wanted to Know, rated T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by this [ Tumblr gifset.](https://mmcnultys.tumblr.com/post/612138191902883840)
> 
> Modern AU. Mild content warnings at the end.

Edward had a boyfriend.

John didn’t mind that, of course. He was religious, but that didn’t make him a homophobe, or a prude, and Edward had been his friend since childhood. John wanted him to be happy.

On a practical level, things had been a lot tighter, budget-wise, since George moved out to live with his pregnant girlfriend. John and Edward had talked about looking for a new flatmate, but that would mean John giving up the flat’s third bedroom, which he was currently using as a home studio for his watercolour painting. If Edward’s boyfriend moved into Edward’s bedroom, John reasoned, John wouldn’t have to give up the studio, and they would still get a little extra income each month. Enough that John might not have to resort to Bombay Bad Boy Pot Noodles more than once a week.

And John liked the boyfriend. Tom, he was called. A bit younger than Edward, he worked at a swanky menswear shop in Mayfair, the kind of place where you had measurements taken and everything looked like it belonged in your granddad’s closet, if your granddad was a wealthy hipster. He and Edward met when, on his way to work, Tom was knocked over by a bike messenger. Or would have been, had the passing Edward not stepped in and caught him at just the right moment.

“Sounds like something out of a romantic comedy,” John commented, when Tom told this story. Tom was holding Edward’s hand and gazing into his eyes. “Or a nineteenth century novel.”

“My Byronic hero,” Tom agreed. Edward, who had never shared so much as a meaningful glance with any of his previous partners in John’s presence, looked back at him and, to John’s utter astonishment, kissed Tom on the mouth. It went on for some time. Long enough, in fact, that they were still making out when John came back with his Pot Noodle and put up his feet to watch the Aston Villa match on his laptop.

Tom obviously loved Edward. The feeling was clearly returned. Tom was at their place nearly all the time anyway. They might as well make it official. _I’ll talk to Edward about it tonight_ , John decided, retrieving the bills from the postbox and climbing the stairs to their flat.

If life was a movie, John later thought, this was the point at which the soundtrack would have begun a slow build-up of suspenseful strings, a hint that horror was just around the corner. In reality, thanks to a headphone-wearing girl on the Tube who would likely be stone deaf by the age of thirty, John was humming the lightly blasphemous “Good as Hell” when he slipped his key into the lock and stopped in his tracks.

Edward was standing in the kitchen. Unfortunately, the open floorplan, which had seemed such a boon when they first found the flat, meant his position was clearly visible from the front door.

“Edward!” The name slipped out before John could consider other, wiser alternatives, such as immediately moving back to Scotland, although he hadn’t lived there in decades, and never communicating with his longtime flatmate and even longer time friend again.

“Oh, fuck!” was Edward’s immediate reply. To be fair, the crudeness did fit in with his current wardrobe aesthetic, which could best be described as “dishevelled, half-naked schoolboy.” For a moment, John wondered where Edward had found the school tie and blazer, the only articles of clothing he was wearing. Then he realized they were Edward’s own, from when the two of them were in sixth form college.

John wasn’t sure whether that made this scenario better or worse, but he had to concede, it was impressive Edward could still fit into a jacket he’d worn at eighteen, even if the sleeves were a little short.

“Now, now, Mr. Little,” another voice came through Edward’s bedroom door. It sounded like Tom, if Tom had stepped from the set of a lower-rated porn video. Not that John would know anything about porn, poorly rated or otherwise. “You know what happens to boys who swear, don’t you?”

Even as Edward’s face turned pale, John made the instant decision to pretend he had gone as deaf as that girl on the Tube.

“I thought you were working late tonight,” Edward said, his tone strangled.

“That’s tomorrow.”

“Shit.”

John felt himself begin to pale a little, too. “Listen, Edward, I…”

Then Tom appeared in the bedroom doorway.

John wouldn’t have expected his lacy black panties, although now that he’d seen Edward dressed as a naughty schoolboy, John didn’t think there was much that could shock him in terms of attire. The table tennis paddle in Tom’s hand _was_ a little astonishing, given John was reasonably certain there wasn’t the space for a table in Edward’s bedroom.

“John!” If Edward was deathly pale, then Tom was rapidly turning the colour of a ripe summer tomato.

“I was just leaving.” John turned. He heard Tom call something out after him, an apology it sounded like, but it didn’t matter. John fled as fast as he could down the stairs and back onto the street, only stopping to catch his breath when it became obvious neither of them was pursuing him. _Well_ , John told himself, _they aren’t exactly dressed for it._

A laugh rose up inside him. He tried to force it down. He thought about the suffering of Jesus, the frailty of mankind, all the usual things, but it wasn’t sufficient. The laughter exploded loudly enough for a passing woman with a dog to look at him like he was insane.

 _Maybe I am_ , John thought. But Edward was his best friend, Edward loved Tom, and John really, really loved his home studio.

He pulled his phone from his pocket. _Text me when I can come home_ , he wrote to Edward. Emojis were not John’s forte, but he added a little smiling face, because he knew Edward, and Edward would be dying of humiliation at the moment. Then, _We should talk about Tom moving in._ With, naturally, a few ground rules about proper attire in the common areas, and a copy of John’s up-to-date work schedule posted on the fridge at all times.

He sent the text, not expecting a reply for a while, and headed to Waterstones for a cup of tea at Café W and a browse through the art magazines.

Now that his studio was going to be permanent, John had a lot of projects he wanted to pursue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for implied spanking, implied age play, and explicit embarrassment. For the Terror Bingo square [accidental] exhibitionism.


	9. There But For the Grace of God, rated T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For The Terror Bingo square "snow blindness."

At first, Tom Hartnell thinks a cat is crying.

As he searches, however, it soon becomes apparent the mournful sound is coming from the captain's pantry. The door, as always, is firmly shut. Standing just outside, Tom clearly hears quiet sobbing within.

There is only one man it can be; only one man is permitted in that room. Tom considers knocking, but he knows if he did so, Mr. Jopson would open the door with his customary smile. If Tom were to press the issue, Jopson would certainly deny ever being the least bit unhappy at all.

Most of the men think Jopson aloof. He is, a bit. It's a hazard of his profession, which keeps him with the officers even though he is not one of them. Tom can understand it, and he believes he knows why Jopson is so upset now.

Lieutenant Little, like the other lieutenants, took a party out to look for leads in the ice. He came back empty-handed, and snow blind. Tom's heart goes out to him—it is a condition that could afflict any one of them, the doctor said, and nobody knows why most are spared—and to Jopson.

“They're fucking,” Mr. Hickey had told everyone in the fo'c'sle one evening, over a hand of cards. “Little and Jopson.” He was met with hoots of derision, but he persisted. “It's true! Billy saw the lovely Miss Jopson leaving the lieutenant's cabin in the middle of the night. Didn't you, Billy?” Billy nodded, his expression as dour as always.

That evidence, if true, is certainly damning, but it’s not solid proof. Until Tom hears the unflappable Jopson in tears, it was impossible for him to imagine an affair between Jopson and Little. If anything, it seems Jopson is the captain's boy, but really, it is very hard for Tom to picture Jopson fucking anyone at all. He is far too tidy.

Then again, Lieutenant Little doesn't seem like he'd ever unbend enough for anything more passionate than fervent conversation, so perhaps they are made for one another. Tom is in no position to judge them. Not when his own head has also been turned by an officer on this ship.

It began over arithmetic. Tom has never been an especially good student, but he attends Lieutenant Irving's mathematics lessons religiously. At first, it was in genuine hope of improving himself, of rising in the ranks. Mr. Blanky hasn't been shy about his aspirations to train Tom as an ice master. Tom can't do that if he can barely add two and two together.

Slowly, however, it became something else. Before long, Tom found himself attending the lessons for the lieutenant himself as much as for what he could teach him. For his steady voice, his unfaltering intelligence. When Lieutenant Irving praised his equations, which he did generously, Tom felt like the most brilliant man in the world.

That was fine. Irving is a solid officer; Tom's admiration was appropriate. Even when Tom began to linger after class, loath for his time with Irving to end, it was justifiable, despite the fact the subject of their discussions began to veer from mathematics into other topics, to sailing and art and religion. Irving is both far more artistic and far more devout than Tom, but Tom soon found he could listen to him talk forever about either subject. About anything.

Only when Lieutenant Irving began to haunt Tom's dreams, often in extremely scandalous ways, was Tom forced to acknowledge a problem.

Tom lets out a quiet sigh. He can't imagine how he would feel if Lieutenant Irving had been the one blinded, possibly for good. He doesn't want to imagine it. Doesn't want to imagine how low Jopson's spirits must be if he, of all people, is weeping in secret.

Below decks, the men sometimes mock Jopson as the captain's lapdog, decorative and useless. Tom knows he is far from that—he would like to see some of those scornful ABs spend a day having to anticipate another man's every need, care for his every whim—and he wishes very much to offer Jopson, if not solace, at least comradeship. They are in the same boat, the two of them, in more ways than one. 

Instead, Tom pays him the respect of walking on, pretending he can’t hear a thing. If Tom then happens to seek out Lieutenant Irving, to inquire about the possibility of additional arithmetic instruction, there's surely no harm in that.


	10. The Naked Truth, rated G

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [ this masterpiece ](https://oochilka.tumblr.com/post/613413590205120512/hey-but-what-about-this-sort-of-role-reversal) of oochilka's, although it's not exactly what they intended. For The Terror Bingo square "dress uniform."

Francis arrives in the dressing room to find Jopson struggling with his epaulettes.

 _Struggling_ is perhaps the wrong word, but he is shifting about in front of the mirror, reaching awkwardly to try and attach them.

Francis steps forward. “Allow me.”

“That's very good of you, sir,” he says, as Francis takes the right epaulette and slides it into place. “I didn't realize quite how inconvenient it is from this angle.”

Jopson looks remarkable, Francis has to admit. There is still a pallor to his face and a dullness to his hair, but his back is straight, his shoulders square. In his new lieutenant's dress uniform, brushed to perfection with the buttons gleaming, he is the very model of the perfect English officer.

 _Edward will fall in love anew_ , Francis thinks fondly, although he knows it would make Jopson blush if he said it aloud. True as it is, the thought is far from proper. As far as Francis is concerned, all of them left “proper” up in the Arctic, with the soul-eating polar bears and man-eating scoundrels.

Francis has long known Edward cares for Jopson. That they care for one another. He was able to successfully ignore this knowledge until the evening he ventured into his own storeroom aboard Terror, in search of a fresh bottle of whisky since nobody seemed inclined to bring him one, and found them in each other's arms.

“It's all my fault, sir,” were the first words out of Edward's mouth. “I forced myself upon Mr. Jopson, and will bear all blame.”

“That's not true!” Jopson replied at once. “I was the one who began it. You must punish me, and leave the lieutenant out of it.” Belatedly he added, “Please, sir.”

The lieutenant shook his head fervently. “I assure you, it was I who...”

Francis raised a hand, which stopped Edward at once. “I feel,” Francis said, after a moment's consideration, “we could be at this all night.” 

Francis knew Edward, to some extent. He did not seem like a man to take advantage just for the sake of it. And Francis knew Jopson very well indeed. His faithful steward would neither begin an illicit affair of this nature, nor would he permit one to continue unless a strong attachment was involved. If Jopson had been fortunate enough to find such an attachment at the end of the world, then Francis was happy for him. God knew the man deserved some joy, even if it was unorthodox.

“Don't allow me to catch you again,” Francis said, because he did need to maintain some order. “Do not allow me to catch you,” he repeated, holding Jopson's gaze. When Jopson nodded, he knew his message had been received precisely.

“Give me the other one.” Francis holds out his hand. Jopson passes over the left epaulette, and, with only a little fumbling, Francis puts it in its place.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Nonsense. How many times have you done this for me?” So often that it had felt wrong when another steward, a man Francis didn't know, helped him with his own uniform.

Jopson's eyes come up, catching Francis' in the mirror. “I mean for everything.”

Francis is not a man given to displays of emotion. Rather, he wasn't, before. That, too, is something that has changed forever. “The uniform suits you very well,” he says, handing Jopson his white gloves. The word “Jopson”, is on the tip of his tongue, but, for the first time, Francis instead says what he really means. “Son.”

The smile on Jopson's face is brilliant, and far too moving. Francis looks away, before he loses all semblance of control. “Come along, then, Lieutenant. It wouldn't do to be late to your first official engagement.” He places the bicorn hat on Jopson's head and heads for the dressing room door, Thomas at his side.


	11. Cendrillon, rated G

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crossover with Versailles. Guillaume/Thomas Jopson. 
> 
> And while Charles Perrault didn't publish his glass-slipper-magical-carriage Cinderella until 1697, a very similar story was written by Giambattista Basile in the 1630s, and was part of the folklore of many cultures long before that, so I'm going to go ahead and assume they could have heard of it. 
> 
> For The Terror Bingo free space.
> 
> Now with a [ beautiful illustration by oochilka](https://oochilka.tumblr.com/post/613964824014127104/and-this-is-an-illustration-to-cendrillon-by).

“I hear you are cobbler to the King.”

Guillaume looks up from the tannery workbench. In front of him stands the most beautiful man he's ever seen, tall and dark-haired. He's dressed simply, as a servant, but he is as lovely as any aristocratic flower Guillaume has glimpsed at Versailles. 

“We work for all sorts of people,” Jeanne calls across the workshop. The man glances at her. “None of our clients have ever been dissatisfied.”

“But you are correct,” Guillaume says, bringing the man's startling blue gaze back to him. “We are fortunate enough to have a position at court.” At least until the King catches wind of Jeanne's disloyal sentiments.

“My master is in sore need of new shoes.” He has an accent, Guillaume remarks. English, although his French is very good. “But I am afraid he dislikes leaving home. I would be most grateful if somebody could go to him.”

Guillaume is far too busy with the King and the orders from court these days to take on such errands himself, but he finds himself strangely loath to assign the task to someone else.

“Where do you live?”

“My master's home is outside Menuls-lès-Saint-Cloud.” A fair ride from the workshop. A trip out there would certainly take more time than Guillaume has to spend.

“I can come tomorrow afternoon.” He can sense Jeanne's eyebrows go up, but ignores her. It's easy enough to do when the man bestows upon him a smile dazzling enough to put butterflies in Guillaume's stomach and palpitations in his heart. He even has dimples, Guillaume notes, with simultaneous despair and elation. He has always been inordinately fond of dimples.

“Thank you, monsieur. He is a very particular gentleman, he only wants the best.” The man gives Guillaume a look that can only be described as meaningful. Even after his experiences at court, where volumes are spoken with looks and gestures, Guillaume does not possess the skills to discern that meaning. He takes the address, and bids the man a farewell which is ridiculously forlorn, given they are complete strangers.

As soon as he is gone, Guillaume hears Jeanne scoff.

“You have something to say, dear sister?”

“Merely that I am pleased to see you taking work for someone other than His Majesty. And that your familiarity with the Duc d'Orléans seems to have affected you in more ways than one.” This meaning could not be clearer, and she could not be more wrong.

Guillaume knows of Philippe's proclivities, naturally. Those same proclivities lived in Guillaume long before he met Philippe. He wonders, at times, if that was what encouraged friendship to blossom between them, even more than their shared experiences in the war.

“If you are short of work, Jeanne, I'm certain I can find you something to do.” His tone is less imperious than he would like, but she says no more.

***

The mysterious gentleman's home is a moderately sized villa, tidy with a well-kept garden. It is not the home of an aristocrat, but nor is it a place for a pauper. The handsome servant himself greets Guillaume at the door.

Overnight, Guillaume almost managed to convince himself he had exaggerated the man's appearance. He, who had seemed an angel on Earth in the tannery, would no doubt appear ordinary or even plain in the light of day.

Guillaume was wrong. The man is as lovely now as he was yesterday. As he greets Guillaume with another of those astonishing smiles, Guillaume hears himself ask, “What is your name?”

“Jopson, monsieur. Thomas.” He says it the English way. _Tom-mass._ It is utterly delightful.

“I am Guillaume,” Guillaume tells him, as Thomas leads him into the house.

“Yes,” Thomas replies. Amusement colours his voice. “I know.”

A man awaits them in the drawing room. Although the weather is mild, he sits before the fire. Like the house itself, this room is well-kept without being extravagant, with tall bookshelves against several of the walls, and paintings of seascapes on the others. The gentleman is not elderly, but Guillaume recognizes the ravages of drink on his face.

“Captain Crozier,” Thomas says, in English. Guillaume can understand a little, although he would never attempt to speak it. “We are honoured with a visit from the King's shoemaker.”

Crozier casts his eyes across Guillaume's person, then snorts. “All right, then. Let's get on with it.”

Captain Crozier—given the seascapes, Guillaume assumes he is a naval captain, or was one, rather than an army captain—suffers from severe bunions. He winces as Guillaume measures his feet, although Guillaume is as gentle as possible. After marching for years with his own troops, this is a condition with which Guillaume has great sympathy.

“Tell him,” Guillaume says to Thomas, as he wraps up his measuring tape, “I will make him the most comfortable shoes he has ever owned.”

His words make Thomas' eyes light up. At once, Guillaume wishes to do that again, and again. “Oh, that would be very much appreciated.” Thomas repeats the sentence in English to the captain, who laughs derisively.

“He wouldn’t be the first to say that. But I welcome his attempt.” The captain's gaze goes to Thomas. “Why don't you have a pair made yourself, as well, Thomas?”

“Me, sir?”

“If his shoes are as good as he claims, then you surely deserve some of your own. You're on your feet far more than I.”

A fetching blush comes to Thomas' cheeks. “That's very kind, sir.” He turns to Guillaume. “My master has kindly offered me a pair of my own. If you don't mind...”

“Not at all.”

Thomas sits on the nearest chair, and removes his current shoes. They are of very poor quality, badly made to begin with and crudely patched on top of that. Guillaume wishes he had brought a pair of completed shoes for Thomas to wear while his are being made.

Guillaume has seen a lot of feet in his time. In and of themselves, they have never interested him, but Thomas' feet are strangely fascinating.

Guillaume bites his lip, striving to maintain the highest level of professionalism. The level that has kept him at court, even if Philippe's influence was obviously what first opened the door. He takes Thomas' measurements as briskly and efficiently as he did his master's, until he arrives at Thomas' left instep.

It is high. Before he can consider what he's doing, Guillaume traces it with his index finger. Even through Thomas' stocking, Guillaume can feel the heat of his body. He twitches, but does not pull his foot away. Rather, he pushes back, just a little, then raises his gaze to meet Guillaume's.

Guillaume feels his own face heat to match the blush darkening Thomas'. He pulls his hand away.

“I shall deliver the shoes myself, once completed.” The vow is rash. He might be called to Versailles at any time.

“I look forward to it, monsieur,” Thomas replies, in a low voice that does not quite suit a conversation about shoes.

***

As promised, the shoes Guillaume makes for Thomas and his master are among the finest he's created. The leather is richly tanned, supple beneath his fingers, and the stitching is exquisite, if he does say so himself. For all his sins, Guillaume is not usually a prideful man. He is proud of these shoes, and excited to present them to their new owners.

To one of their new owners in particular. He smiles to himself on the ride up to Menuls-lès-Saint-Cloud. He would say he feels as giddy as a schoolboy, but Guillaume was always a serious child.

“Good afternoon, monsieur!” Guillaume did not write ahead to announce his arrival, but Thomas greets him as if he was expected. “I'm afraid Captain Crozier has taken ill.”

“I hope it is nothing serious.”

A delicate frowns settles upon Thomas' forehead. “No,” he says, sounding tired. “It is quite usual.”

There is nothing to be said to that. “I have your shoes.” Guillaume holds up the bag in his hand. It seems an idiotic statement—why else would he have come?—but Thomas brightens, the frown disappearing.

“Please, do come in. I'm so eager to see them.” 

He takes Guillaume to the same room they were in before. Guillaume sets aside the shoes made for the captain, and unveils Thomas' pair. “They're wonderful!” Thomas exclaims. “Might I try them?”

“Of course.” The prudent course of action would be to hand the shoes to Thomas, to let him put them on himself. Instead, Guillaume says, “Please, sit.”

Guillaume has spent a great deal of his life as a supplicant. Before God, before the King. It feels just as natural to go to his knees before Thomas, to take one of his stocking-clad feet in hand and slide it into the shoe. The fit, of course, is exact. 

“My goodness.” Guillaume looks up. Thomas' cheeks are rosy, his lips parted in a way that makes Guillaume feel quite warm. “That's lovely.” He clears his throat, as Guillaume sets down that foot and takes up his other one. “In Italy, the captain and I heard a story about a lady who flees from a royal ball, and is found again by the perfect fit of a slipper she left behind. Do you know the tale?”

“I have heard a similar one at court.” Guillaume remembers Philippe recounting it to him, thinking, no doubt, that the subject matter would appeal. 

Thomas holds his gaze. “Then you will know that the one who returns her slipper is a charming prince. Like you, Guillaume.”

Guillaume swallows. “I am far from a prince.”

“Perhaps.” He reaches out to rest his hand on Guillaume's shoulder. His touch is light. Still, it makes Guillaume's heart beat faster. “But I find you very charming indeed.”

He moves slowly. Guillaume has ample opportunity to shift away, to get up and leave, to reject what Thomas is clearly offering. He does none of that. Instead, he allows Thomas to sit on the floor beside him, to take Guillaume in his arms, and, finally, to press a kiss, soft and tentative, against Guillaume's lips.

Despite the circles he now moves in, despite his close friendship with the King's only brother, Guillaume is a simple man. He is not ashamed of that. There is a natural hierarchy to the world, and Guillaume is well aware of his place within it.

 _And my place at the moment_ , he thinks, wrapping his arms about Thomas and returning kiss with ardour, _is exactly where I am now._


	12. Far Far Away From Ypres, rated T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Terror Decameron prompt "fortune."

The man is married, probably. Drunk, certainly. Exhausted and afraid, most definitely.

These last conditions afflict them all, but the officers tend to suffer more than the men, Thomas has observed. Fresh out of Sandhurst, they come “over here” ready to _give the Kaiser a jolly good thrashing._ They end up waist-deep in mud and shit the likes of which they’ve never seen, throwing out human cannon fodder just to try and hold the line. There’s nothing else they can do. That haunts them. The good ones, in any case.

The Major sleeping next to Thomas is a good man. Thomas knows it, even though their acquaintance has been very brief and mostly carnal. He is astonishingly handsome, with a thick moustache, long eyelashes, soft lips that kissed Thomas with sweet hesitation, at first, then with desperate desire. Normally, Thomas would have taken him around the back of the tavern and got on his knees, but this man deserves more than that. They went to an abandoned barn instead. Thomas helped the Major up into the hayloft, and gave him more than he’s given any man for a very long time. The Major took it gratefully, and sobbed when he came.

The tear marks are still evident on his beautiful face, glowing pale in the moonlight. With a rush of sentimentality, Thomas brushes the Major’s dark hair from his forehead. _I wish I could keep you_ , he thinks, as silly as it is. At home, a man like this wouldn’t look twice at someone like Thomas, the man who served his tea, or punched his train ticket, or shined his shoes. 

The man opens his eyes, blinking. “What’s your name?” He asks lowly, his voice coloured by sleep.

“Tommy,” Thomas says. It’s a generic name. _The_ generic name, but the Major doesn’t seem to doubt Thomas’ answer.

“Tommy,” he repeats. He reaches out, his hand catching Thomas’ in the hay. “When all this is over, I should like to take you somewhere much nicer. Anywhere you like.”

Thomas laughs. “Is that right, sir?” He speaks naturally, with his real accent as opposed to the better one he has cultivated working under Brigadier General Crozier. He feels as though he can be natural with this man. Truthful. “Well, in that case, I don’t mind saying, I’ve always want to go to Brighton.”

“Then that’s where we shall go.” He presses a kiss to the back of Thomas’ hand, a gentleman in Hell. “Brighton. I promise you.”

“I’ll hold you to that. Don’t you think otherwise.” Thomas leans down and kisses him back, the Major’s moustache tickling his lips. “An ice cream in Brighton, that’s what I want.” Thomas allows himself to imagine it, to feel the warm sun on his back and the Major’s hand held tightly in his own. It’s a harmless enough fantasy, Thomas supposes, given that they’ll surely both be dead before the week is out.

***

Three-quarters of a million English soldiers were killed in what they’re calling the Great War.

That’s what the newspapers say. Thomas has plenty of time to read them, in his kiosk outside Charing Cross station. He’s intelligent enough not to believe everything he reads. If that’s what they’ll admit to, then the real number must be higher.

Why he is not amongst that number, Thomas will never know. He should have been. He was very close on more occasions than he cares to remember, but still, he came home. The retired Brigadier General Crozier offered him a permanent position as valet, but as much as he loves Crozier, Thomas couldn’t settle there. He couldn’t settle anywhere. He roamed about London for two and a half aimless years before he landed here, selling newspapers to harried travellers.

It’s a cold, wet morning in January, a day like any other, when a fresh crowd bursts forth from the station. Water dripping off his cap, Thomas calls out the headlines. There’s nothing particularly thrilling today, but he sells a handful of copies, exchanging newspapers for coins which he slips into the pouch at his waist. Yet another hand wearing yet another black leather glove reaches out to him. Thomas looks up, and stops mid-headline.

It’s the Major. Thomas hasn’t seen him since that morning in France, when he picked hay out of the gentleman’s hair and kissed him good-bye, but he knows him. He would know him anywhere.

He shows no sign of recognizing Thomas in turn. “One, please,” he says, in his plummy, upper-class accent, his dark gaze meeting Thomas’.

“Yes, sir.” Thomas hands over the newspaper. His heart lurches, but as much as he longs to embrace the man, it is impossible. _He’s alive_ , Thomas thinks. He has to be satisfied knowing that. It is remarkable, and not something he ever suspected possible.

The man takes his newspaper and turns away. Ignoring the buffeting of the dwindling crowd, Thomas stares after him, watching his light brown overcoat and black umbrella disappear into a mass of light brown overcoats and black umbrellas. Just as he is about to be swallowed up by the throng, the Major stops.

In an instant, it seems as though all of the blood in Thomas’ body rushes to his face. His cheeks are hot beneath the rain as the Major turns and makes his way back.

He stops in front of Thomas, near enough that Thomas could touch him, if he let himself. The Major is equally flushed. His gaze meets Thomas’, then slides away, before returning once more. “Brighton,” he says, suddenly. Then, less certainly: “Yes?”

Thomas doesn’t reply. He can’t. Instead, he drops his remaining papers into a puddle and throws his arms about the Major. After a moment’s hesitation, the Major does the same, setting down the umbrella and holding Thomas tightly until Thomas can’t feel anything but the man’s warm grip about his waist.

***

“Are you sure you won’t try a bit, Ned?” Thomas asks, extending the ice cream towards him.

“No, no. You seem like you’re enjoying it.”

He is. He is enjoying Brighton immensely. The beach is windy and cold, the waves crashing furiously against the bottom of the pier. Still, Thomas can imagine it on a fairer day, full of laughing bathers.

That would be lovely to see, but Thomas prefers it this way: deserted enough that he can press his leg against Ned’s as they sit side-by-side on a damp bench.

Ned—for that is his name, Mr. Edward Little, lately of His Majesty’s Army and presently of Messrs. Little, Hodgson and Irving, Investment Bankers—smiles at him, his eyes twinkling with it.

He is not one for expressing sentiment, he says. Still, Thomas can tell how happy he is, how thrilled and thankful to have found Thomas against all odds. The feelings are more than mutual.

Ned is not married. That was almost the first thing he told Thomas, when they finally moved out of the Charing Cross rain into a nearby hotel tea room, and then, quickly, into a hotel bedroom. He is not drunk, at the moment. He is not exhausted or afraid, not anymore, but he is still a good man. The best. And now, he is Thomas’.

Thomas has a sudden urge to kiss him. Even though nobody is nearby, that is still far too dangerous an idea to enact. Instead, he says what he thought, all those years ago and all those miles away: “I’m going to keep you.”

If Ned is taken aback by the strange vow, he doesn’t show it. “Please do, Tommy,” he says. “I want you to.” He squeezes Thomas’ thigh lightly and rests his hand on Thomas’ knee, leaving it there as Thomas takes a big, crunching bite from his ice cream cone.


	13. Like and Subscribe, rated T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Dancains.

It's like, what do they call it, ASMR.

That's what Edward tells himself. Some people find it relaxing to watch strangers pop plastic wrap or flick dry paint brushes or whatever. He happens to find it relaxing to watch Tom Jopson talk about the intricacies of making candles.

He doesn't know how he first landed on “Brighten Your Day With Candles.” Some winding path of Youtube “recommended videos” he wouldn't be able to retrace if he tried, but the moment he found it, Edward was entranced. He watched every one of Tom's ten-to-twenty minute long videos immediately.

Nine months and thirty-four new videos later—Tom took off the weeks of Christmas and New Year's, leaving Edward bereft over the holidays—Edward understands no more about candle making than he did before. Tom, however, is endlessly fascinating.

Edward can't say exactly what it is he finds so alluring. Tom is handsome, with his flopping dark hair and his five o'clock shadow, but Edward sees handsome men all the time. He's clearly very intelligent, but Edward works with some of the biggest minds, not to mention egos, in the country.

There is something else, something which leaves Edward unable to look away. When Tom says, “Adding too much fragrance can, unfortunately, lead to curdling in soy candles” with a look of heart-wrenching empathy in his big eyes, Edward wants to gather him in his arms and give the man a good, solid hug. When he says, “I had news from viewer Jamie in Nova Scotia that they've solved their ongoing issue with wet spots!” Edward wants to kiss him in celebration. And when Tom leans forward, the V-neck of his shirt revealing a patch of dark chest hair, to confide, “Today, we're going to talk about the length of your wick,” Edward offers up a mental apology and reaches for his fly.

Edward thinks his obsession is secret, until one evening his flatmate George says, “Thanks for staying out when I had Emily over the other night.”

“It's fine.” It is in Edward's best interests not to be about when George and his girlfriend get together. There is only so much saccharine sweetness and over-the-top pet names he can handle.

“I really appreciate it. So does she. We wanted to get you a gift.” It's only then Edward notices the bag, printed with pink flowers and the words “It's a Girl!”, in George's hand. “Sorry about the bag,” he adds. “It was the only one I could find.”

 _Where?_ Is the question Edward doesn't ask. “That's not necessary, George. Really.”

“Open it!”

Edward tries not to sigh as he opens the gift bag. George's gift-giving history, while admirable in its efforts, is remarkably poor in its execution. The last thing Edward needs is another “Purrrrrfect Friend” mug with a cat’s tail as a handle, or a T-shirt with a Sasquatch on it. It's the thought that counts, he reminds himself, even if that thought is, when it comes to George, quite often incomprehensible.

This gift is just as strange. Edward stares at what appear to be squares of white wax, a roll of string, and several tiny bottles, until George, still smiling, explains, “It was Emily's idea. I told her how you're always watching that candle making channel on Youtube, and she said you're probably dying to give it a go yourself.” He looks at Edward, his expression expectant. “It's great, right?”

“Right.” Edward smiles. “It is. Great. Thanks, mate.”

The next day, Edward buys a pair of headphones.

***

One Wednesday nearly a year after Edward first found him, Tom finishes a talk about gel wax, then leans back on his stool. All of his videos are filmed in the same kitchen, with several little cactus pots on the windowsill and a gleaming sink, spotlessly clean, in the background. Edward wonders if it's Tom's own kitchen. If the rest of the room, or the house or flat, is as tidy as what he shows. If he lives with anybody. No one else is ever on the videos, although that doesn't mean Tom doesn't have a friend or a flatmate or a partner behind the camera.

“I'm really going to miss you,” Tom says, putting the gel candles aside. Edward's heart seizes. “But I won't be making any new videos for the next little while, because I'm going on a book signing tour!” He holds up the book, also entitled “Brighten Your Day With Candles”, he's been showing for the last few weeks. Edward ordered it the first time he saw it. He feels like he owes Tom at least that much. “I am so excited,” Tom says. He looks it, but Edward has never seen him be anything but sincere. “Unfortunately, it's just in south east England at the moment—sorry Jen in San Luis Obispo, I can't make it out to California this time, although I would love to someday—but I would really like to meet as many of you as possible. My complete schedule is below. See you soon!” He waves. Edward is about to scroll down to the comments, then hesitates.

What would he say if he met Tom in person? That he thinks Tom is the most incredible man he's ever seen? That he's watched every one of Tom's videos multiple times, and still knows nothing about making candles? That he often pictures Tom talking authoritatively about long burn times and multiple layers while Edward blows him? It's disgusting, inappropriate, probably illegal.

With a shake of his head, Edward puts the thought of meeting Tom Jopson entirely out of his mind.

***

At one time, Edward loved his career. That was before the company president died suddenly and his role was taken over by two co-presidents, promoted from within, who have a long history of conflict and have used Edward as a go-between, the miserable child of an unfriendly divorce, for months now.

It saps Edward's energy to the point that he doesn't have the will to look for another job. He just goes to work every day, suffers, and comes home to brighten his day with candles. Until one night, when George meets him at the door.

“Don't take your coat off,” he tells Edward. “We're going out.”

“I really don't feel like...”

“You will. Trust me.” Edward doesn't. They're great friends, but Edward doesn't trust him a bit. The feeling is vindicated when they arrive at the local Waterstone's, and George pushes him inside.

Tom is even more beautiful in person. His stubble looks like it's deliberate rather than the result of a long day, although Edward has always found that very charming in itself. He's wearing a smart white button-up shirt, and the smile he directs at the woman in front of him is so brilliant, Edward feels weak.

“No.” Edward turns to go.

George stops him. “Why not? It's the guy you like, isn't it?”

“It's...I don't...What am I going to say?”

“That you're a big fan? Even though you still haven't used that candle stuff Emily and I got you?” George looks at him pointedly. “Get him to sign your book.”

“I don't have it with...”

George reaches into his satchel and presses “Brighten Your Day With Candles” on him. “Get in the queue,” he says, in that imperious tone he sometimes has. “I'll wait in the café.”

Edward's stomach churns, but he follows George's direction, joining the queue behind a middle-aged woman and her teenage daughter. There are two other people ahead of them. It’s long enough for Edward to regret his entire life up to this point, not long enough to gather the wherewithal to walk away.

When he gets to the front of the line, Tom says, "Hi. It's Edward, right?"

Edward's carefully thought out opening words—“Good work”—disappear. “How did you...”

“Your friend George sent me a message.” _Of course he fucking did._ Edward is going to kill him. Is actually going to put his hands around his throat and...“He told me you'd be here.”

“Hm.” Edward has no idea what to say. His mind is entirely blank. He searches desperately, a quest which eventually arrives at, “Yes.”

“You like my videos?” Tom holds out his hand. Edward shakes it, then, face burning, realizes Tom was reaching for the book. Edward drops it onto the table. It thunks loudly.

“Yes,” Edward repeats.

“Do you have a favourite type of candle?” Tom opens the book and turns to the title page. 

“Wax ,” Edward replies, because his brain has apparently given up on this situation as entirely unsalvageable.

Tom laughs, as if that was a joke. He scrawls something in the book, then closes it and hands it back to Edward. “Thanks for watching, Edward. I really appreciate a loyal viewer like you.” He holds Edward's gaze as he says it.

Edward swallows around the lump in his throat. Edward has never done well in front of others. If he and Tom were alone, Edward might be able to come up something halfway coherent. Maybe. They're not.

“Thanks,” he says. He could swear Tom throws him a wink as he walks away.

It's that, along with the general humiliation, that leads Edward to duck out of view between Interior Design and Gardening. He opens the book to see what Tom wrote.

The words “For Edward” and a scribble that could be Tom's signature lie across the title page. Beneath that is a series of numbers. It takes Edward a moment longer than he wants to admit to realize it’s a phone number. He's not that lucky, usually. But he's also not this stupid.

His heart still hammering, Edward takes out his phone. _I'm not really an idiot_ , Edward types, then sends the text before he can think twice. He glances at Tom, deep in conversation with a young woman in denim overalls, and goes to murder George.

Two hours later, Edward is sitting on the sofa at home when his phone trills. _You don't seem like one._ It's too kind. Just like he expected Tom would be. _Can I buy you a coffee? Or better yet a drink?_  


“Who's that?” George asks, without looking up from his laptop. He doesn't need to. His entire body exudes smugness.

“Mind your own business,” Edward says. _But_ , he adds silently, _thank God you never do._  
***

The rest of Tom's flat is as tidy as the kitchen he shows on his videos. It's also, amazingly, less than half an hour's drive from Edward's place. In addition to that, Tom has a day job at a shop Edward has passed hundreds of times, which he's always derogatorily classified as “candles, crystals and shit” and avoided.

“So if you hadn't been such a snob, darling,” Tom tells him, with a smile and a kiss, “we might have met a long time ago.”

Edward can't deny that. He can, however, deny that it's a good idea for him to join Tom on screen.

“Don't worry.” Tom sets up his phone on its tripod and comes back around the counter. “Just pretend it's not even there.” He kisses Edward again, on the cheek, then turns to the camera. “Welcome back, everyone! We have a very special guest today. This is my gorgeous boyfriend Edward, and we're going to help him make his very first candle!”

Tom posts the video later that evening. Not long afterwards, the comments start appearing. Normally, Edward would avoid them—he knows what Youtube commenters are like, and he never wants to see any criticism of Tom—but this time, he looks. To his surprise, there are several remarks about him. “Edward's so cute!” “OMG ur bf is the sweetest!” And, “That Edward guy really is great. I think you should have him on every episode.” The username beside that one is “PianoMan86” and the picture is the same one George uses on Instagram.

 _Bloody George._ Fortunately, Edward thinks, looking at the slightly lumpy candle he produced with his own two hands, he has the perfect gift for him.

“Edward!” Tom calls, from his room down the hall. “Are you coming?”

Before they met, Edward assumed Tom would be the kind of guy who lights a million candles in the bedroom. In fact, he only ever lights one, but it never fails to have the perfect luminosity and fragrance for the mood.

“Yes.” Edward puts down his phone and hurries to join him. As amazing as he is on Youtube, Tom is unspeakably better offline.


	14. Someone Else's Story, rated M

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Tumblr birthday fic for Dancains, and homage to her story [In His Shape How Lovely.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19438924) Role-reversal AU.

Edward Little's family is ashamed of him.

They never miss an opportunity to tell him so. Edward, however, has never been ashamed of himself. He is a man who has always loved order, and loved caring for others. Even as a boy, he preferred “women's tasks” to those his father and brothers tried to foist upon him. Preferred to sit quietly. To read, to paint. Even to help Mrs. Wilcox with the mending, when he could get away with it.

“There is something wrong with him,” was the general consensus. Perhaps it is correct. Edward has never felt wrong, though, except when he was forced to live another man's life, compelled to do things for which he has no skill or interest.

His father, a Navy man, put Edward to work as a ship's boy as soon as he was old enough. The path laid out for him was clear. He would become an officer, everybody thought. He was of the breeding and the background for it, but Edward possessed no desire—and, it was soon apparent, no aptitude—to lead men. No desire to labour with the tars, either, although he did find he very much enjoyed being at sea. A steward's position might be far beneath what was expected of him, but it is exactly what Edward has always wanted. He's never been happier than he is here, serving Captain Fitzjames and the worthy officers of _Terror_ on their expedition to find the Northwest Passage.

Edward tries to respect all the officers equally, but one in particular stands out in his mind. Lieutenant Jopson is at once similar to Edward, and his complete opposite. Jopson rose from the London gutter, everybody knows. He was once a steward himself, aboard _Terror_ no less. A battlefield promotion in the Antarctic, vigorously defended by the now-retired Captain Crozier upon their return, put him where he is today. An unorthodox path, maybe, but Edward cannot imagine a man more suited to his role. Jopson is gentle, on the whole, but firm when he needs to be. Due to his origins, the men accept Jopson as one of their own in a way they do no other officer, but when necessary, he makes his superiority of position known. He is intelligent and capable, an invaluable asset to their crew. Captain Fitzjames' trusted second. And, Edward thinks privately, Jopson also happens to be possessed of a rare beauty he finds moving in the extreme.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Little.” Jopson comes into the wardroom with a smile on his face. Edward has rarely seen him without one. “Although you would scarcely think it, given we are steeped in the pitch darkness of midnight.”

Edward doesn't speak much. It's not that he dislikes talking. He can just never seem to land on the right words to say. Silence is a desirable trait in a steward, although some officers have teased him for it. Jopson never teases. He simply fills the quiet with words of his own, without comment or complaint, and somehow without ever resorting to idle prattle.

“Captain is out, sir,” Edward says. “Gone to _Erebus_ to meet with Sir John.”

“Ah, yes. He did tell me so.” Jopson's smile doesn't waver. Nor, Edward notices, does he turn around to leave. “How are the preparations for Christmas? If I understand correctly, we are to host the Erebite officers on the day?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And that is going well?”

“Yes, sir.” Edward doesn't know what else he can say about it. He feels himself flushing as he casts about in the recesses of his mind for something, anything. It doesn't help that Jopson is looking upon him with his most kind, patient expression, the one that makes him even more alluring than usual. Edward doesn't look at him. “Mr. Diggle is doing up as much of a feast as he can manage.” Given that they've just passed their second anniversary in the ice, that's not much. 

“Ah, yes. Christmas dinner courtesy of Mr. Goldner.” Jopson laughs. “I don't mind. I must say, I'm not particular about my food.”

“No, sir.” Edward has noticed. Jopson cleans his plate at every meal, without exception. _A man who grew up with hunger_ , Edward thinks. While he has no experience of it himself, he is sympathetic. On the rare occasions there are leftovers, he always offers them to Lieutenant Jopson before anyone, even the captain. It is not protocol, but nothing has yet been said. 

“What about you?”

“Sir?” Edward's flush is darkening, he's sure. He can feel it heating his face.

“What did young Edward Little desire more than anything for his Christmas meal?”

Edward licks his lips, his eyes on the lamp in the corner. He couldn't look at the lieutenant if his life depended on it. “Ah, goose, sir. It was normally goose.” It feels wrong to expound upon the memory, given what he knows about Jopson's past. But Jopson, kind as always, says, “Go on, please,” and Edward adds, “With Yorkshire pudding and mince pies.” And a good deal more than that, but there is no need to belabour the point.

“It sounds heavenly. Thank you for sharing that with me. Now I shall have something to imagine as I pick the lead out of my own Christmas dinner.”

Edward expects the lieutenant to leave. Hopes he will leave, really, although there is a part of him that wants nothing more than for him to stay.

“Mr. Little.” Edward looks up. The lieutenant is gazing back at him, his beautiful eyes wide and shining.

Edward has never admired an officer, not in that way. Not in the dangerous way, the way that makes his stomach churn and his mouth grow dry. The way that haunts him when he's alone in his berth, that gives him illicit fantasies that segue into filthy dreams. 

He's never wanted to undress an officer slowly, unprofessionally, his eyes devouring every inch of skin as it comes into view, his fingers stroking through the hair that darkens the man's chest. He's never wanted to go to his knees as he pulls down an officer's trousers, never wanted to mouth an officer's stiffening yard through his small clothes. Never wanted to hear an officer gasp above him, feel him thread his hands in Edward's hair, murmuring words of appreciation and encouragement as Edward removes the last barrier between them and presses his tongue to a hard pink cock. Never wanted to look up coquettishly through his lashes, his dark eyes meeting astonished blue ones. Never wanted to taste an officer, never wanted to kiss and lick and suckle him, root to tip, until he spends, flooding Edward's mouth with wave upon wave of his salty essence.

Lieutenant Jopson is unique in all sorts of ways.

“You are an excellent steward.” Jopson speaks with conviction. He wouldn't say it if he knew the vile contents of Edward's mind.

Edward stands still as Jopson raises a hand. Automatically, Edward's body braces for a blow, although Jopson is most certainly not that type of man, and has never struck anybody to Edward's knowledge. He doesn't do so now, of course. Instead, his hand lands, gentle and light, on Edward's shoulder. “I don't know what we should do without you,” he says, and squeezes. The sensation sends a warm wave the length of Edward's arm.

Lieutenant Jopson winks, the expression so fleeting Edward almost doubts if he saw it at all. Then, he leaves, his footsteps echoing down the passageway. Edward feels suddenly cold, despite his layers of clothing.

Edward has never been ashamed of his occupation, never been ashamed of who he is. He is ashamed of his consuming, humiliating lust for Lieutenant Jopson. _But maybe_ , he thinks, recalling the wink, and the soft touch, the kind words the lieutenant always has for him and the sea-blue eyes that sometimes—often—meet his over the dinner table or as they press past one another in the passageway, _if I'm lucky enough, there may be no cause for shame there, either._


	15. Hate the Taste, Love the Impact, rated E

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Joplittle Prompt Week on the group chat and Discord. The prompt from what-a-terrorific-mess is: “Aggressive dominant sex...then affectionate apology cuddles.”
> 
> Inspired by [this gif set](https://sizeofacherry.tumblr.com/post/620021534995709952/sizeofacherry-same-however).
> 
> CW for drunk, rough sex, although both parties are fully consenting and expecting it.

Seven years into his relationship with Edward, Tom has learned that the outcome of their regular Friday Nights In depends on the type of alcohol he puts in his buggy during his weekly Tesco's run.

Beer will mean sloppy kisses and laughter and Edward getting up every ten minutes to use the loo. Red wine will mean emotions, sometimes tears, and a Saturday spent tiptoeing about the house as Edward lies in bed with a splitting headache. Cocktails will mean reminiscing about their university days, particularly Edward's university days, particularly Edward's past relationships and how they compare poorly to his marriage to Tom. The liquor he gets most rarely, the one Tom himself least likes to drink, is single malt whisky, and that will lead to...

“Get over here.” Edward slides up behind Tom as he stands at the dishwasher, putting away their glasses and snack plates. Trying to hide his smile, Tom reaches for the last plate on the countertop. Edward grabs him before he can touch it, his hand clasping Tom's wrist just hard enough to hurt. “Leave it.”

“I'm just tidying up.”

“I said, leave it, for fuck's sake.” Edward's other hand slides down Tom's side, squeezing his hip in an equally painful grasp. His teeth worry at Tom's earlobe, and a thrust of Edward's groin against his backside gives Tom a very clear indication, if he was in any doubt, exactly where Edward is heading with this.

“Edward,” Tom begins, injecting his voice with false innocence. “I just...”

Edward cuts him off roughly, spinning Tom around to face him and plunging his tongue, hard and fast, into Tom's mouth. It's more of an assault than a kiss. Edward tastes like cheese and onion crisps and like whisky, and he feels just a little bit dangerous.

Tom's always liked that. Little bit of danger, little bit of pain. Or he did, until he fell in love with the safest, kindest, most gentle man he's ever met. He loves Edward so much, in fact, that he forgot just how much that other stuff appealed to him, until the first night Edward had a bit too much whisky and left him with carpet burns on his knees that didn't heal for a week.

It's bad of Tom, maybe, to encourage it the way he does. Afterwards, Edward is thoroughly embarrassed by this sort of behaviour, no matter how much Tom insists he adores it. Adores this rough side of his sweet man, the excitement that comes from being slightly hurt by someone Tom knows would never truly harm him.

“Turn around,” Edward orders, and points towards the other worktop.

It's no hardship to comply. The countertops are solid granite, absolutely beautiful. Tom, feeling a little less than sober himself, lets his eyes trace patterns in the stone as Edward's strong hands pull down first Tom's zip and then his own. 

“Right here, Edward?” Tom asks, just to hear the animalistic grunt he gets in return. He grins when Edward pushes his jeans down to his knees, and gasps when Edward smacks him on the backside, holding back the groan that threatens to escape. Too much noise, Tom's noticed, especially if it sounds unhappy, will snap Edward out of this aggressive state no matter how much whisky he's drunk.

So Tom keeps quiet as Edward moves away, only to return a moment later. A quick glance over his shoulder shows Tom he's got the decorative bottle of olive oil Tom keeps in the corner by the stove. Just the sight of it is enough to make Tom's cock jerk against the edge of the granite. “Stay still,” Edward snaps, unstoppering the bottle with his teeth. There's an indecent, oily _squelch_ , and Edward shoves him down face first onto the countertop. Tom barely has time to savour the sensation of the cool stone against his overheated cheek before Edward's slicked up cock is sliding into him, pushing all of his breath out with it.

They aren't newlyweds anymore, shagging every day, so that's not really enough preparation. There's a burn that threatens to be too much, but Tom bites his lip and squeezes his eyes shut, just for a moment. A deep breath in, and it becomes the sensation he loves best: painful enough to know he'll be feeling it in the morning, not so painful that he has to worry about his ability to walk. Edward's mouth returns to his neck, biting and sucking as he thrusts into Tom. Tom's own cock, eager for attention, twitches again, and Tom reaches down.

He gets a sharp nip to the shoulder in return. “Hands up.” Tom obeys. His reward is Edward's hand instead, tugging at Tom artlessly but efficiently. Almost at once, Tom is on the edge.

The downside of the whisky is that it does nothing for stamina. Another thrust, another bite, and Edward is panting and swearing in Tom's ear. A moment later, he comes, hot and wet inside Tom. That, followed by another pinch to his arse, sends Tom reeling, spurting white lines across the carefully selected black and white granite.

Tom can tell the second his Edward—his real Edward—returns. There's a noise almost like a whimper, and Tom turns around. Edward looks sweetly ridiculous, his pants around his ankles and a combination of olive oil and semen on the hem of his jumper that Tom just knows is going to be a devil to shift.

“Jesus, Tom.” He sighs, long and heartfelt, like someone letting the air out of a balloon. His expression is just as deflated. “I don't know what came over me.”

I do, Tom thinks. He smiles and leans forward, to kiss Edward on the lips. Edward's mouth doesn't move. “It's all right, darling.”

“I'm sorry, I...”

“It's fine. I enjoyed it. Very much.” Tom takes a step forward, hampered by his own half-dressed state. He puts his arms around Edward anyway, holding on until Edward eventually rests his head on Tom's shoulder.

They'll talk about it in the morning. They always do. Edward will offer his apologies, over and over again. Tom will remind him he was a more than willing participant. That he, in fact, was the one who poured the whisky for Edward, even as Edward warned, “You know what that's going to lead to, love.”

For now, though, Tom is tired. The terrible liquor and the amazing fuck are catching up to him. “Let's have a bath,” Tom suggests. That's usually what Edward likes best after an encounter like this. A nice warm cuddle in a nice warm bath, until he falls asleep and Tom has to dry him off and half-carry him to bed. There, Edward, who is usually the type to sleep on his own side of the bed, will spend all night with his arms and legs wrapped around Tom, like an amorous octopus. 

_Whisky_ , Tom thinks, as he hangs up his towel and slides into bed. A twinge in his hip tells him there'll be a bruise there by morning. Something else to fuel Edward's misplaced guilt. _Hate the taste._ Edward pulls him into his sleepy grasp. _Love the impact._

But next week, he's going to get the beer.


End file.
